


wake up

by stilljustbitten



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés being emotional, Andrés is caring, Bi awakening, Birthday Anal, Gay Panic, Lots and lots of Pining, M/M, Marble Sculptures, Martín being soft and low-key horny, Martín is hurt, Panic Attacks, cuts and bruises, emotional smut, the color of martín's eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilljustbitten/pseuds/stilljustbitten
Summary: “Here, let me help.”He takes the lighter from Martín’s hand and lights the cigarette for him. Instead of moving away afterwards, he stays awfully close to Martín’s face, staring directly into his eyes, looking as if he’s trying to decipher something. His brow furrows slightly. The intensity of his gaze makes Martín want to step back, but he doesn’t.Or: 5 times Andrés' mitochondria goes MIA (and 1 time Martín doesn't panic)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 113
Kudos: 178





	1. The color of his eyes

Martín is woken up by a loud noise coming from his phone. He looks at the clock. 2:04 at night. Groaning loudly, he reaches for his phone and answers with a tired: “Yes?”

“Martín!” Andrés’ voice is loud and joyful, making him squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing?”

Another groan. “It’s 2 in the middle of the fucking night, what do you think I’m doing?”

The truth is, he had only been sleeping for about an hour. He always has trouble sleeping when Andrés isn’t home. It isn’t like they are sharing a bed, but it’s like Andrés’ mere presence calms his body. He doesn’t have to be in the same room, he could be in his own bedroom, doing whatever, and Martín would peacefully drift off to sleep. But the moment he leaves the house, like this night, Martín doesn’t even bother to go to bed early. He knows he will just toss and turn for hours, so he always waits until he’s completely exhausted.

It is hard not to worry, when he knows what kind of stuff Andrés likes doing for fun. He has never confronted Andrés with the matter, but sometimes Andrés will casually text him to tell him what he is doing, that he is okay, like he knows.

He hears Andrés giggle. “Sorry if I woke you up. I need you to come pick me up.”

Martín wipes his hand across his face and sighs. “Seriously? Can’t you just take a cab?”

“I’m at a party in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think they’ve got cabs here. Please, Martín.”

He is already looking for the jeans he left on the floor yesterday. It’s not like he’ll ever refuse Andrés anything. “Just text me the damn address.”

-

He steps out of the car and walks towards the house located on the address Andrés gave him. It’s a really fancy house, and the people scattered in the front yard all seem fancy too. And rich. Martín suddenly becomes very aware of his own outfit: his crumpled jeans from yesterday and the t-shirt he uses to sleep in. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs his jacket around him, wishing to be invisible. Luckily he doesn’t have to actually enter the house, because Andrés stumbles out the door right when he considers going to look for him.

“Martín!” he exclaims, waving his arms and actually looking happy to see him. Andrés greets him with a warm hug, which makes Martín forget about not fitting in. He smells the expensive wine in his breath. “Thank you so much for coming for me.”

Martín takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Yeah, no problem. I just need a smoke before having to drive that far again. This really is in the middle of nowhere.”

Andrés laughs. “I told you so.” He eyes Martín curiously, watching him struggle with lighting his cigarette. “Here, let me help.” He takes the lighter from Martín’s hand and lights the cigarette for him. Instead of moving away afterwards, he stays awfully close to Martín’s face, staring directly into his eyes, looking as if he’s trying to decipher something. His brow furrows slightly. The intensity of his gaze makes Martín want to step back, but he doesn’t. 

“I simply can’t figure out”- he looks like he’s studying Martín’s face, tilting his head just a little -“if your eyes are green or blue.”

Martín chokes on the smoke, lets out a cough and ends up blowing a cloud of smoke directly in Andrés’ face, making him step away in disgust.

“Sorry,” Martín offers in the middle of a cough, his eyes tearing up. _What the fuck was that?_

\--

On the ride home they both stay quiet for a while, before Martín says:

“They’re blue.”

Then he turns up the music.


	2. The wine on his lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s an unfamiliar feeling, though, when the hand moves from his knee to further up his thigh. It takes a while for him to notice, the wine dulling his senses a bit. It isn’t unpleasant, of course not, but it’s the first time Andrés has touched him in _that_ way. Or maybe he’s just overthinking. Probably.

“Let’s call it a day!” Andrés exclaims, startling Martín, who has dozed off hunched over a book on his table. He makes a muffled sound of agreement. They have been stuck in the monastery all day, studying and making plans, and apparently Martín’s brain was overwhelmed by the information about alarm systems he was just reading about. He remembers finding it really exciting, though, but right now he doesn’t recall most of it. 

Andrés emerges with a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

“I think this might be just what we need,” he says and puts it down on the coffee table next to the couch. “This and some uplifting music!”

Martín groans quietly, still trying to persuade his brain to wake up. _Where did Andrés get all of that energy from?_

“Why are you so damn cheerful?”

“Oh, Martín, you’re always so grumpy right after you wake up,” Andrés chuckles while putting on a record. “Here, have some wine.”

Martín accepts the glass offered to him and downs it eagerly. Maybe that will help boost his energy levels. The look Andrés sends him, surely for drinking the wine and not savoring it, doesn’t escape him. 

He slumps down on the couch and watches Andrés swirl around the room, a glass of wine in one hand, eyes closed and a contented smile on his face. He feels his grumpiness slowly seep out of his body, replaced by a warm feeling. He likes seeing Andrés like that. Carefree. He knows that right now there’s nothing in Andrés’ head but the music. If he was to talk to him right now, he knows for a fact that he wouldn’t get any response. So Martín just watches him. Admires him. 

About an hour and one and a half bottles of wine later, they’re sitting together on the couch. Andrés’ body has finally managed to wear itself out, but his mind is still consumed with the music, apparently making him unable to shut up. Martín doesn’t mind, his brain is still a little foggy - the wine didn’t help a lot - and after all he loves listening to Andrés’ voice. 

He waves his wineglass in time to the music and says, with closed eyes: 

“My mother and I used to dance to this song over and over again, when I was a kid. It was her favorite. She told me it reminded her of simpler times.” 

He hums along with the music. Suddenly his humming comes to a halt, and Martín can see by the way he swallows uncomfortably, that he’s feeling emotional. He puts away his glass and sends him a reassuring smile, takes his hand and squeezes it. Andrés smiles back at him with damp eyes. He moves a little closer, resting his head on his shoulder, Martín’s hand still on his. 

“Thank you,” he says in a strained voice.

Andrés’ hair tickles his ear, and he leans his own head against it, intoxicated by the spicy smell of his shampoo. He takes a deep breath, feeling all of his muscles relax. This close to Andrés - there is no place he would rather be. Close enough to hear his calm breathing, to feel his chest move with every breath. It makes him feel _whole_. 

He squeezes his hand a little harder, as if holding on to Andrés will make the moment last longer. When a warm hand caresses his knee, he can’t help but smile. They have always been intimate like this, not afraid to touch each other. Or Andrés hasn’t, anyway. Martín is always careful not to touch Andrés too often, not to make his hands linger for suspiciously long, but for his part, he’ll let Andrés touch him whenever and wherever he wants to. He’ll take what he’s offered. 

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, though, when the hand moves from his knee to further up his thigh. It takes a while for him to notice, the wine dulling his senses a bit. It isn’t unpleasant, of course not, but it’s the first time Andrés has touched him in _that_ way. Or maybe he’s just overthinking. Probably.

It takes him a moment to discover that he enjoys the feeling a bit too much, to see that his body betrays him, making his pants way too tight around his groin. 

_Shit._

He abruptly lets go of Andrés’ hand, the sudden movement making Andrés withdraw the hand from his leg and sit up with a puzzled look on his face. The confusion in his eyes almost makes Martín feel sorry for him. 

He stands up, his body once again betraying him by making his cheeks blush. 

“I’m—” he blinks a couple of times, searching for the right words, or just any words at all ”—I’m tired.”

“Alright,” Andrés answers with raised eyebrows. He gets up too, making Martín take a few clumsy steps backwards, afraid that if he comes too close, their bodies will pull towards each other like magnets. 

“Good night, Martín.” 

He’s certain that he catches a flicker of disappointment on Andrés’ face. But then again, it’s probably just the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye bye mitochondria...


	3. The curves of his body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You remind me of the marble copy of one of Polykleitos’ sculptures. Your proportions, they’re—” he trails off, apparently completely lost in thought. 
> 
> Martín raises an eyebrow, quietly putting out the cigarette in the grass next to him, moving as little as possible. Something about the moment seems precious, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. Unsure of the tone in Andrés’ voice, he can’t decide how to respond, so he says:
> 
> “Yeah, my body is a bit softer than marble, I’m sure you would like it.”
> 
> The remark was meant to be funny, but it comes out somewhat strained.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Palermo,” Tokyo shouts and throws a piece of bread at him. Martín laughs and picks up the bread. He doesn’t particularly like Tokyo, but he has fun teasing her, and it just feels nice to be reunited with the gang after all these months. They have been drinking and eating for hours in the sunny yard, for once not having to worry about plans or hostages, and now the sun is about to set. 

Despite Tokyo’s outbursts the atmosphere is nice and relaxed. It has been a long day, and everyone around the table looks tired. 

“Can someone please put those kids to bed?” Bogotá sighs, slumped in his chair, apparently trying to take a nap. 

“How about you just go to bed yourself, old man,” Martín answers, throwing the piece of bread in his direction, hitting him right between the eyes. Luckily the man is too tired to do anything but groan. Martín’s eyes dart to Andrés, sitting on the opposite end of the table, _too_ far away, and is rewarded with an approving smile. 

When he returns Andrés’ smile, he feels something in his chest trying to pull him towards Andrés. He misses him. He realises it’s stupid, after all, they live together and see each other almost every day. But right now, sitting on opposite sides of the table, it feels like they are miles apart. They have been talking, of course they have, but they also haven’t. And the periods of not talking during the day have been too long. Martín sighs, realizing how selfish he is. To always want to be the center of Andrés’ attention. He definitely needs some distraction.

It’s still hot, and his shirt sticks to his back when he gets up from his chair to change the music - now that the old people are getting tired, he can finally pick some music that he likes. He closes his eyes and starts dancing all by himself. It’s a lovely feeling to just let his body move to the music, while his brain takes a much needed break, making him stop caring what he’s doing or if anyone is watching. This is why he never took any dance lessons, he is fascinated by the way his body just knows how to move when guided by the music. 

“Palermooo,” a deep voice says, and two large hands grab his shoulders from behind. 

_Helsinki._

Martín smiles and turns around. Out of all the gang members, he finds himself particularly happy to see Helsinki again. After all, he was the one taking care of Martín during the heist, when he was hurt and Andrés was held captive by Tokyo. They ended up sleeping together one night, but somehow that didn’t come to define their relationship. Martín remembers being surprised that Helsinki continued caring about him afterwards. When he realised that Helsinki, unlike any of Martín’s previous partners, was interested in more than just his body, he panicked. He didn’t know how to respond to that, and almost ended up scaring Helsinki away in his confusion. Fortunately the man seemed to have a unique understanding of Martín, and since then, he has always felt safe with him around. 

“Come here, big guy,” he says and pulls Helsinki closer, ready for a dance. He stifles a laugh when he watches the man struggle with the placement of his hands. Helsinki is lovely in every way, but he certainly isn’t elegant. He ends up doing his best though, Martín appreciates his attempt, and they have a lot of fun swirling around in the yard.

After the dancing he finds his shirt almost soaked in sweat, so he decides to make a little show of taking it off and throwing it on his chair, causing Helsinki to whistle. He catches Andrés rolling his eyes and muttering something about getting a room.

Martín takes his drink and retreats to the garden on the other side of the house, his head in need of a break from all the noise and the people. Laying down on the soft grass he lights a cigarette and closes his eyes, enjoying the silence. 

A few minutes later he hears footsteps approaching, and he doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know that it’s Andrés.

“Did Helsinki wear you out?”

Martín smiles fondly. “Why, are you jealous? Don’t worry, I just need five minutes, then I’m ready for another round.” 

“I’ll look forward to that,” he answers in a frisky tone. 

The feeling of Andrés' gaze upon him makes him open his eyes. He catches Andrés staring at his naked chest, apparently unaware that Martín noticed, or just past the point of caring. The expression in his eyes is almost dreamy. 

“You remind me of the marble copy of one of Polykleitos’ sculptures. Your proportions, they’re—” he trails off, apparently completely lost in thought. 

Martín raises an eyebrow, quietly putting out the cigarette in the grass next to him, moving as little as possible. Something about the moment seems precious, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. Unsure of the tone in Andrés’ voice, he can’t decide how to respond, so he says:

“Yeah, my body is a bit softer than marble, I’m sure you would like it.”

The remark was meant to be funny, but it comes out somewhat strained. 

Martín expects Andrés to scoff, maybe even to tell him that he prefers the firmness of marble.  
What Martín doesn’t expect is for Andrés to move closer, never breaking the gaze. He hears a small sigh escape his slightly parted lips, as he gently places a hand on Martín’s chest. His touch is hesitant, feathery. Almost as if he’s afraid to break him. Martín’s breath hitches in his throat, the sound embarrassing him, but Andrés doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on the place where his hand lingers, before it slowly travels up towards his shoulder, caressing the skin as if making sure to feel every inch of it. Martín feels the blush on his cheeks as he parts his lips to speak, but only a shaky breath comes out. The last few rays of sunshine illuminates Andrés’ face, making his eyes glow with a golden hue. He feels his heart hammering inside his chest, and wonders if Andrés feels it too, when his hand slides back down. Despite the still heated air around them, the touch leaves goosebumps on his naked skin.

This time a curious fingertip flicks over his nipple. Martín exhales sharply, the touch sending a jolt of heat directly to his crotch, making his hand desperately grasp the grass beside him. He feels uncomfortably hot, and when Andrés’ hand continues its journey down his stomach, past his navel, he is hit by a sudden fear that he will find out just _how much_ his touch has affected Martín. That he will be _disgusted_. He grabs Andrés’ wrist hard, making him snap his head up and look into Martín’s wide eyes. 

“Did I—” Andrés shakes his head once, looking like a deer caught in headlights ”—Did I do something wrong?”

Martín loosens his grip, shaking his head frantically. Breathing heavily.

“No! No, not at all. It was, uh—” he looks down “—I think I’ll go to bed.” 

He scrambles to sit up, to get some distance to Andrés before the urge to touch him, to rip off his clothes, overpowers him.

“See you in the morning,” he manages to say before almost running to the yard. Everybody has vanished, thank God, so he just grabs his discarded shirt and walks inside. 

When he reaches the door to his room, he pauses for a second, only to continue down the hall to Helsinki’s door, knocking hard. He doesn’t even bother trying to cover the huge bulge in his pants.


	4. The fear of losing him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walk from the car to their room takes place in total silence, but without Andrés’ hand ever leaving Martín. One minute his fingers curl around his wrist, the next minute his hand rests on the back of his neck. Martín knows why, he feels it too, the thought alone almost enough to tear him apart. Tonight could very well have been their last night together.

Martín still can’t pinpoint what caused their miscalculation. They had a week’s worth of research behind them, and he still can’t figure out what sequence of events made the guards be there when they absolutely shouldn’t have been. Shit, it wasn’t even going to be a dangerous mission, just a small crime to practice their skills and keep them entertained. 

He goes through it again in his head, every little detail, from when they left the monastery this afternoon to when everything suddenly went to shit a couple of hours later. 

He is sure they did everything as they were supposed to. Everything went as they had planned, that is, right until two armed guards appeared around the corner and they were suddenly held at gunpoint. The place wasn’t supposed to be guarded, which is why they hadn’t even bothered to prepare for that. 

Somehow he isn’t able to recall exactly how they managed to get away. The last clear memory he has is the sight of the gun pointed at him, and more importantly, the gun pointed at Andrés. After that, there’s only glimpses and sounds. The deafening noise of gunfire around him, his mind going blank because _they didn’t plan for this to happen, he doesn’t even have a gun_. The fear, cold in his bones, that one of the bullets flying through the air will hit Andrés. The panic clouding his vision and the smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The sound of Andrés’ voice shouting his name, telling him to run. The mere seconds, feeling like minutes, where he considers disobeying and attacking the guards instead. Andrés’ voice, filled with dread, finally cutting through the haze in his head, making his legs comply. His throat burning, his pulse pounding in his ears. The constant voice screaming inside his head that he should go back and save Andrés. Andrés. _Andrés—_

“Martín. _Respira_.” 

A hand on his knee brings his mind back to the car.

The speed of the streetlights passing by tells him that they’re driving fast, that Andrés, too, is affected by what happened, focused on getting away as quickly as possible. The smell of gunpowder still lingers in the air, making Martín’s throat tighten.

“Andrés—,” he chokes out, unable to control his breathing, a feeling of panic taking over his body. “Can you pull over?”

When the car stops, he wants to get out, to get some air, but he is too dizzy to actually stand up. He lowers his head to his knees, trying just to breathe. Through the ringing in his ears, he hears the windows open, the cool night air filling the car. He hears Andrés’ calming voice repeating the same words over and over again. 

“Just breathe.” 

“We’re safe.” 

He wants so badly to believe it, but his whole body tells him otherwise.

The hand running up and down his back helps to ground him, and his breathing slowly returns to normal. Relaxing his hands, he feels the sting from where his nails have been digging into his sweaty palms. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Andrés’ leg bouncing nervously, though he still keeps a calmness in his voice. 

Shit, he’s putting them in even more danger by asking him to pull over. They need to get away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting up. “I didn’t think. Just go.” He wipes his palms on his jeans.

The car accelerates quickly, but a calm hand finds his, holding it for the rest of the ride.

After driving forever, they finally arrive at a shabby-looking motel in the middle of nowhere. Martín wants to know how Andrés has found a place like that, not his usual choice, but he can’t find the words, the aftermath of the panic attack still clouding his brain. 

The walk from the car to their room takes place in total silence, but without Andrés’ hand ever leaving Martín. One minute his fingers curl around his wrist, the next minute his hand rests on the back of his neck. Martín knows why, he feels it too, the thought alone almost enough to tear him apart. Tonight could very well have been their last night together.

He slumps down on the bed, the tension evaporating from his body, giving room for complete exhaustion. Andrés lays down next to him. For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is their breathing. Martín focuses on Andrés’ every inhale and exhale, to convince himself that he really is here with him, very much alive. 

Then Andrés turns to look at him and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. When Martín frowns, he adds: “The way you reacted out there. I was afraid that you wouldn’t listen when I told you to run.”

Martín tilts his head to look at him. “I almost didn’t,” he admits, his eyes darting away from Andrés and back again.

“But you did.” Andrés sends him a warm smile.

“I had to trust you. I was really scared that—” his voice breaks mid-sentence, and he’s unable to stop his lip from trembling. 

“I know.” 

Andrés pulls him close, one hand resting on the back of his head.

“I didn’t know what to do. I fucked up, Andrés. I panicked. I should have—” 

Andrés shushes him, and Martín stops talking, it’s not like he knew where he was going anyway, he doesn’t know what he should have done. He just knows he did _something_ wrong. 

One of Andrés’ hands finds its way under Martín’s shirt on his back. The touch gives Martín a feeling of safety, and he hides his head in the crook of Andrés’ neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar, spicy scent. Andrés is here, he is really here with him. They got away. His trembling fingers, still not fully convinced of his presence, find their way to his hair, scraping against his scalp. He needs to feel him, to hold him, and make sure he stays.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” Andrés whispers. 

Martín’s fingers dig into his back, to let him know, without words, that the feeling is mutual. He never wants to let go. Their bodies are flush against each other, their legs are tangled together, and yet both of them are struggling to get even closer. It’s like a tingling feeling in Martín’s body, a need to feel all of Andrés at the same time, a restlessness in his hands that is unable to get rid of. 

They stay like that for a while, fingers digging into skin, raw emotion seeping from desperate fingertips, making words unnecessary. 

What eventually brings Martín back to his senses is the feeling of Andrés’ hand sliding down the back of his jeans. He blinks a couple of times and suddenly becomes very aware of the situation he’s in. He realizes that they’re both panting, their breathing rapid and shallow, loud in the small room. His shirt sticks to his stomach, caught between their bodies, damp with his sweat. _Their_ sweat. 

His breath hitches when he feels Andrés’ hardness pressed against his thigh, a matching, throbbing hardness in his own pants. _Shit_.

Something in the back of his mind warns him that this isn’t right. For many years, he has wished for nothing but this. He and Andrés sharing a bed, tightly embraced. He still wants it now, more than ever, with Andrés’ hand cupping and squeezing his ass. But this doesn’t feel like the right time or place. 

He doesn’t want it to be a simple reaction to a stressful situation. He needs Andrés to genuinely _want_ it, and right now, he isn’t convinced that Andrés knows what he’s doing. Even though his body signals that he does want it, the loud panting, almost moaning, in his ear and the erection rubbing against his thigh. 

_God_ Martín wants it too, his body screams at him to continue, to ignore his thoughts, and just give in to his physical needs.

It takes all the willpower he can muster to stop himself.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, pulling away just far enough to look Andrés in the eye. The words almost get stuck in his throat when he sees Andrés’ flushed face, disheveled hair, and eyes dark with want.

He swallows hard and forces the words out of his mouth.

“I don’t think we should do this.”

Andrés stares at him for some time, his expression blank, seemingly struggling to understand the words. Then he slowly retracts his hand and clears his throat. 

“You’re right, sorry—” He looks almost ashamed, his eyes looking anywhere but at Martín “—Guess I got caught up in the moment.” 

When he turns away and moves to get up, the distance between them, even if it’s just inches, triggers something in Martín. He instantly feels the tightening of his throat and reaches to grasp firmly around Andrés’ wrist, before he manages to leave the bed. 

Martín wants to say: “I didn’t mean it.” “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” “I love you so much.” 

Instead, he just says: “Please stay,” well aware of how desperate he sounds.

Andrés nods and lies down on the bed once again. Martín turns his back to him, tucks Andrés’ arm around him, and interlaces their fingers. Andrés’ face nuzzles against his neck, and just before Martín falls asleep, Andrés places an almost unnoticeable kiss on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of my favorite chapter of this fic, I hope you liked it too.
> 
> Again, I'm sorry for ruining stuff for these two idiots. But Martín needs to protect himself, he needs to be ready. Spoiler alert: This will happen in chapter 6.


	5. The taste of his blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grabs Andrés’ wrist hard, digging his nails into the skin, ready to shout something at him, but the words get caught in his throat when he notices the way Andrés’ eyes still linger on his face. His expression resembles something from Martín’s darkest fantasies. The way his lips are slightly parted, his eyes filled with admiration, but with a hint of something more dangerous, too. Something that should probably alarm Martín, but intrigues him instead.
> 
> OR
> 
> Martín is hurt, and Andrés cleans him up. Or he's supposed to, but he's distracted...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what my brain was doing when I wrote this, but yeah... Here it is.

With every kick hitting his back, a jolt of pain shoots through Martín’s body. He stopped saying anything a long time ago because he isn’t able to inhale enough air to make a single sound. _This isn’t the worst pain I’ve been through_ , he keeps telling himself. _It will be over soon_ , he tries to convince himself, when he feels his body start to panic from the lack of oxygen. 

His mind starts to get foggy when suddenly he hears a voice shouting:

“Get the fuck away from him!”

Martín has never been more relieved to hear Andrés’ voice in his entire life. 

He startles when the voice is followed by gunshots, but keeps perfectly still, covering his head with his arms. _Shit, shit, shit_.

When he hears a voice screaming something about a “fucking psycho” and the sound of footsteps disappearing, he finally feels like he can breathe again. He peeks out from his arms and looks directly into a worried pair of brown eyes.

“Are you okay?” Andrés asks, panting as if he has just run a marathon. 

His hand lingers in the air, like he wants to touch Martín, but is afraid to cause him more pain. Eventually, he lowers it.

Martín removes his arms from his face, wincing when every little movement hurts. 

“I think so,” he croaks, followed by coughing and spitting out blood.

“You don’t look okay.” Andrés places a gentle hand on his shoulder, barely touching him.

“Just a little sore.” 

Martín sits up, taking a minute to focus on his breathing, letting the cool night air fill his lungs. When most of the dizziness has disappeared, he tries to get up, with Andrés standing next to him, eyeing him suspiciously. Martín is thankful for that, when suddenly one of his legs gives in under him, making him lose his balance and stumble into Andrés’ arms. Andrés catches him, but Martín is quick to wriggle out of his touch.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, slightly embarrassed.

This time he feels a sharp pain coming from his lower lip when he talks. He touches it cautiously, getting blood on his fingers. 

“That one is going to hurt. You could use some cleaning up,” Andrés says, frowning and looking at Martín’s face. “Come here.”

It isn’t a question, so Martín accepts the arm around his waist, steadying him as they walk to Andrés’ car. 

When they get home, Martín follows Andrés to the bathroom, where he slumps down on the toilet. He watches as Andrés gets a cloth and prepares some soapy water, taking his time getting just the right temperature.

In the safe surroundings of the monastery, with the adrenaline slowly wearing off, Martín suddenly becomes aware of how much everything hurts. His head is pounding, his back feels like it’s covered in a million bruises, and the scratches on his arms are burning. 

Standing at the sink with his back to Martín, Andrés asks:

“What the fuck were you doing out there? Why were they beating you up?” 

Martín scoffs. “They were just a bunch of homophobic idiots.” 

He tightens his fists just thinking about the stuff they had called him. For some reason, he doesn’t want to tell Andrés. It shouldn’t affect him this much, anyway - after all, he is an adult now, no longer insecure about his sexuality. But somehow, the stuff the men said to him tonight brought back flashes from a time when he still felt like something was _wrong_ with him. When he didn’t dare to fight back because he genuinely believed it when people told him he needed to be fixed. 

He hears a sigh from Andrés. “You have to be careful, Martín. I know how stuff like that affects you—”

“You don’t know shit!” He feels the anger boiling up inside him once again. “You have no idea what it’s like to have to listen to stuff like that from people you don’t even know. If someone said those things to you, I swear you wouldn’t hesitate to rip them apart!”

Andrés kneels in front of him and gently places his hand under his chin. 

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. But you’re going to get yourself killed if you don’t think before you act. They were three against one, Martín. If I hadn’t been there—”

Andrés stops, and Martín sees a flicker of worry in his eyes before the damp cloth touches his cheek. He exhales slowly and feels the tension leave his body. 

“I know. Thank you. What were you doing with a gun anyway?”

Andrés smirks. “I never leave the house at night without a gun. That would be irresponsible.” 

“Of course.” Martín rolls his eyes. 

A warm feeling spreads inside his chest when Andrés uses the cloth to clean the blood off his face. He isn’t sure anyone has ever taken care of him like this, and the concentrated, yet worried, look at Andrés’ face makes him want to drag him closer and kiss his forehead to make the frown disappear.

“I’ll have to get rid of this to clean you properly.”

Martín nods and lets Andrés carefully pull his shirt over his head. He wipes the blood away from Martín’s neck and chest, every brush of the cloth feeling like a caress. Suddenly he stops mid-motion, eyes darting over Martín’s chest and face.

“Look at you,” he says, taking a step back to get a better view of Martín. Martín feels extremely self-aware, sitting half-naked in the bright light from the bathroom lamp, being the subject of Andrés’ gaze. He shifts nervously.

When Andrés steps closer, Martín tries to meet his eyes, but his gaze seems fixated on Martín’s lips. He opens his mouth to say something, to ask something, but stops when Andrés carefully cups his chin with his hand. His thumb ghosts over Martín’s lower lip, coming to rest just over the cut. 

Andrés’ eyes meet his for a brief moment when without a warning, he presses his thumb down hard. Martín jerks away, a jolt of pain making him cry out.

“What the hell!?” 

He grabs Andrés’ wrist hard, digging his nails into the skin, ready to shout something at him, but the words get caught in his throat when he notices the way Andrés’ eyes still linger on Martín’s face. His expression resembles something from Martín’s darkest fantasies. The way his lips are slightly parted, his eyes filled with admiration, but with a hint of something more dangerous, too. Something that should probably alarm Martín, but intrigues him instead.

He feels a drop of blood from the cut trickle down his chin, Andrés’ eyes following it. Martín watches, mesmerized, when the shade of Andrés’ eyes turn impossibly darker. He watches the corner of his mouth curl up in a wicked half-smile, feels his hand sliding up the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair. 

Suddenly the hand grabs hold of his hair, and his head is yanked back. He lets out something between a hiss and a moan, and stays completely still, curious eyes resting on Andrés. As his face approaches, Martín’s heartbeat quickens, and the feeling of Andrés’ warm breath on his lips makes his eyes flutter shut. An involuntary reaction from his body, strengthening his other senses. 

For a moment there are just Martín’s rapid puffs of breath mixing with Andrés’ calm exhales. The anticipation is both wonderful and unbearable, the air between them electric. 

He almost startles when Andrés’ tongue touches his lower lip, hesitantly running over the cut. The sensation makes him arch his back in pleasure, but Andrés’ firm hold keeps his head in place. There’s something about being unable to move that makes his heartbeat even faster and the heat rise to his face. 

When Andrés’ lips meet his, it’s soft, careful even, and he tastes his own blood on Andrés’ tongue. It probably shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, but the metallic flavor triggers something deep inside him, something feral, making him groan into Andrés’ mouth. 

Andrés breaks the kiss and pulls Martín’s head further back to gain better access to his neck. When Andrés’ mouth lands on his skin, his tongue darting back and forth, he whimpers loudly and grasps the collar of Andrés’ shirt to pull him closer.

Andrés takes a step forward, almost losing his balance, and places a hand on Martín’s shoulder to steady himself. A sharp spike of pain shoots from his shoulder to his back, making Martín groan out loud. Andrés immediately lets go of his hair and pulls back, his eyes wide. 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t, uh, don’t worry,” Martín manages to say, trying to steady his rapid breathing. 

Andrés stares at him for the longest time. 

“Maybe this isn’t—” he trails off, looking up and down Martín’s body. “You’re hurt.” 

Martín stares at the stain of blood right below Andrés’ lower lip. _His_ blood. He can’t think of anything other than how badly he wants to lick it off, how every fiber of his body craves for Andrés’ mouth on his, for his hands to keep touching him. 

“Please. I’m fine.”

He tries to prove himself by standing up, to get closer to Andrés, but his head is spinning and beaten up body betrays him, forcing him to sit back down. 

“Please, Andrés,” he tries one more time, almost begging.

Andrés stands in the middle of the bathroom, arms hanging down his sides, hands flexing. The internal struggle is visible in his eyes.

Finally, he shakes his head. 

“I shouldn’t.”

A defeated sigh escapes Martín when he picks up his shirt and pulls it over his head, suddenly feeling the need to cover himself. He struggles a lot doing it, every movement hurts, and he realizes that Andrés is right. Regardless of how much he _wants_ Andrés right now, how painfully hard he is, he is in no state to do anything sexual. 

He takes a few deep breaths before standing up again, this time steadying himself with a hand on the sink. Andrés hesitates for a moment before he moves to put an arm around Martín’s waist and walks with him to his bed.

Martín lies down on his bed, carefully supported by Andrés, groaning and shifting to find a position that doesn’t hurt too much.

“I’ll get you some painkillers,” Andrés offers, the worried frown back on his face.

“Yeah, thanks,” Martín answers in a tired voice.

When Andrés returns with painkillers and a glass of water, Martín is already asleep in an awkward position, still wearing his bloodstained clothes.


	6. The way he moans my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that if he tilted his head a little, Andrés’ neck would feel hot against his lips, and he would taste the saltiness of the thin layer of sweat covering his skin. He inhales sharply at the thought, his cheeks burning. When he looks up, he finds Andrés staring down at him with a fond smile playing on his lips. He tries to take a step back, in need of a little distance between their bodies to keep his sanity, but Andrés keeps him in place. In fact, it feels like he’s pulling him just a little closer.
> 
> “It’s alright, Martín,” he whispers in a low voice, the puffs of breath on Martín’s ear making the hairs on his neck prickle. _Shit_.

It is Andrés’ birthday, and of course, he has decided that the most perfect birthday present is the one you don’t pay for. This is why he and Martín are right now sitting in a bar, in a city they barely know the name of. Their evening started at a museum, where Andrés claimed he had once seen ‘the most beautiful painting in the world’. Martín was doubtful at first, he probably rolled his eyes too, but the look in Andrés’ eyes when talking about the painting quickly convinced him.

Now said painting is securely located under the bed in their hotel room, and Andrés decided that he wanted to celebrate their achievement with some wine and dancing at a local bar. Honestly, Martín considers himself the luckiest man alive, sitting in this fancy bar with Andrés. To think that he chose to spend his birthday with _him_. He will never understand why Andrés prefers Martín’s company to all the other people he knows, to all the _women_ , but when it happens, he is truly grateful. 

“Martín?” 

Martín blinks, forcing his eyes to focus on Andrés’ face. He becomes aware that he has been staring at his best friend, probably wearing the look of a lovesick puppy. Fortunately, Andrés just basks in the attention and asks:

“You like it here, huh?”

Martín smiles. “It’s perfect.” _You’re perfect_.

“I know.” 

Andrés walks up to order another drink but gets sidetracked by a bunch of women. Martín tries to drown the feeling of jealousy in his stomach when they drag him to the dance floor. It’s his birthday, after all, and he hasn’t had a woman for some time. Plus he looks like he’s having the time of his life, swirling around to the music, so Martín decides just to enjoy the sight, to take it all in. After all, he’s used to this.

When Martín passes the dance floor on his way to get a drink for himself, a hand grabs his arm. 

“Martín,” Andrés smiles, eyes glistening and his shirt sweaty from all the dancing. “May I have this dance?”

Martín literally feels his heart flutter in his chest. Andrés once again prefers his company, even in the presence of so many beautiful women. He lets himself be led to the middle of the crowded dance floor, where he ends up showing his best dancing skills, not caring what anybody thinks. 

Andrés is mirroring his wide smile, and when a slower song starts playing, he drags Martín close with no hesitation, a hand on his lower back. He will never get over Andrés’ smooth movements, making everything flow so naturally. He will also never get over how all of his senses intensify when he comes this close to Andrés. How he suddenly notices every smell, his cologne, the faint smell of his sweat, even just the smell of his _skin_. How his ears only register the sound of his rapid breathing, barely able to hear the music. He’s even sure he can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s just his own pulse pounding in his ears. The feeling of Andrés’ damp shirt under his fingertips, the firmness of his muscles moving beneath it. The heat. The intense heat radiating from them both, getting caught in between their bodies. 

He knows that if he tilted his head a little, Andrés’ neck too would feel hot against his lips, and he would taste the saltiness of the thin layer of sweat covering his skin. He inhales sharply at the thought, his cheeks burning. When he looks up, he finds Andrés staring down at him with a fond smile playing on his lips. He tries to take a step back, in need of a little distance between their bodies to keep his sanity, but Andrés keeps him in place. In fact, it feels like he’s pulling him just a little closer.

“It’s alright, Martín,” he whispers in a low voice, the puffs of breath on Martín’s ear making the hairs on his neck prickle. _Shit_. He feels the struggle between his mind telling him to get away before he does anything he is going to regret, and his body being pulled towards Andrés’ like a magnet. 

When he feels a hand slide up his back, rest on his neck, thumb nuzzling a spot right under his ear, his mind goes blank, leaving only his body to make the decisions. He knows it’s stupid, that he will end up getting hurt, but tonight he simply doesn’t have the willpower to resist Andrés. He has been doing that for too long.

His own hands are restless on Andrés’ back, caressing him, pulling his shirt, wanting to feel all of him. Martín lets one hand slide down, but stops at the hem of the pants, still unsure of Andrés’ intentions.

“You can touch me,” a raspy voice tells him.

Martín swallows audibly, adding a quick nod before letting his hand continue, coming to rest on Andrés’ ass. He feels a hand slide under the fabric of his own shirt, and _thank God_ the dance floor is so crowded, so no one can see him falling apart.

Finally, he gives in and lets his head rest in the crook of Andrés’ neck, his mouth against the damp skin, his tongue darting out to taste it. When Andrés reacts with a soft moan, when his fingertips dig into Martín’s back, he is 100 percent sure that this behavior isn’t allowed in public. 

He lifts his head a little and says: “W-we should go back to the hotel.”

Andrés hums. “You’re right.” 

The ride back to their hotel is pure torture, it feels like it lasts for hours, and Martín’s jeans are uncomfortably tight.

Martín closes the door to their room behind him and stops in front of it, suddenly unsure of himself. What if the moment has passed, what if Andrés has come to his senses, what if— 

When Andrés turns around and looks at him, there’s a flicker in his eyes of something he hasn’t seen in them before. Something looking very much like the same uncertainty he finds in himself. Martín steps closer and takes Andrés’ hand. They stay like this for a while, just looking into each other's eyes, Martín’s eyes from time to time darting to Andrés’ lips, the anticipation making his skin tingle. 

“Andrés,” he whispers in a pleading voice, not daring to take the leap himself. This moment feels too important, and he has a habit of ruining things. 

Andrés understands, and finally, he feels his lips against his own. He is not sure what he expected Andrés to taste like, but if he ever expected anything, it would have been exactly this. Like the sweetness of wine, like something forbidden. Like years and years of fantasies finally coming true. 

His knees threaten to give in under him, so he wraps his arms around Andrés’ neck, deepening the kiss. Meanwhile, Andrés tucks his shirt from his pants, letting one hand slide up his back, the other one squeezing his ass. 

His fingers itch to touch Andrés, so he sneaks his hands between their bodies to unbutton his shirt. Andrés’ skin burns under his fingertips when he finally touches his chest, his stomach. He wants more, he wants to see all of Andrés, to feel every inch of skin. Breaking the kiss, he pulls his own shirt over his head before he pulls Andrés’ shirt off too. He takes a second to just look at Andrés’ body, and then he pushes him down onto the bed. 

He briefly wonders why he isn’t nervous, but it’s like his body has just taken over, finally getting what it’s been craving all those years. It feels familiar, Andrés’ body against his own, even though he has never experienced it in this way before. 

He straddles Andrés, his still desperate hands all over his chest, soon replaced by his mouth, kissing and licking every inch of skin available. The feeling of Andrés squirming and panting under him erases his fear of ruining anything. To see Andrés like that - a man normally so in control of himself, never letting go - gives Martín the confidence that he can’t do anything wrong.

When he sits back up, he unbuttons Andrés’ pants and pulls them off. The sight of his tenting boxers alone makes him exhale sharply. Andrés notices, the corner of his mouth curling into a lopsided smile, and suddenly Martín finds himself on his back on the mattress, Andrés hovering over him. Whatever feeling of power he had before has now vanished, the reversal of their roles making him feel vulnerable, exposed. 

The hunger with which Andrés is looking down on him makes him wonder exactly how long he, too, has been longing for this.

Andrés leans down and kisses him right under his ear - _how does he know the exact spot that makes him weak with lust_ \- and the hand that now gently strokes his erection through his jeans makes him squirm and grab the sheets in desperation. This is torture. 

“Andrés, please,” he whimpers, bucking his hips against the touch.

“I know, Martín,” Andrés whispers in his ear, his taunting smile audible. Martín almost whines when he feels the teeth on his earlobe. Thankfully Andrés’ other hand finally, way too slowly, unzips his pants. Martín hurries to get rid of them.

Soon they lay entangled on the bed, kissing fervently. Andrés grinds his erection against Martín’s, making them both groan loudly. Martín wants this to last forever, but at the same time, he’s desperate for being touched, for release, for anything.

His hand finds its way down Andrés’ boxers, and Martín can almost see the last shred of control leave Andrés’ body with the beautiful moan from his lips. 

The last coherent thought in Martín’s head makes him place a shaky hand on Andrés’ chest and ask:

“Are you sure you want this?”

Andrés’ body hasn’t shown anything but lust, yet a small doubt in the back of Martín’s head makes him hold his breath for the short moment it takes for Andrés to respond with a breathy “fuck, yes”. Martín’s boxers are ripped off him, and out of habit he turns to his stomach, but Andrés stops him mid-motion.

“I want to look at you.”

The sincerity of the words makes Martín blush and lie down on his back again. 

Not breaking eye contact with Andrés he licks two of his own fingers and starts preparing himself. Andrés seems mesmerized by the sight, his hands restless on his own thighs. Martín has trouble concentrating on his task, way too turned on to keep doing this for very long. 

When he feels ready, he straddles Andrés, kissing him deeply. Slowly, moaning into his mouth, he lowers himself. Andrés lets out a ragged breath, his fingers digging hard into Martín’s hips.

“Holy fucking shit, this feels—” He trails off, when Martín begins moving, his words turning into moans and whimpers, head thrown back. 

Martín is long past the point of being able to control his body. He hears the sounds coming from himself, _this feels so fucking good_ , and he keeps reminding himself that _this is Andrés_ , Andrés inside him, Andrés’ desperate panting in his ear. 

A sudden wave of emotion hits him, and he tries to hide his head on Andrés’ shoulder when he feels the tears in his eyes. He will not fuck this moment up. 

Of course, Andrés catches on to the change in his mood, the way one of his moans turns into a slight sob. He gently lifts Martín’s head with his hand to look at him, a small frown on his face. Martín tries to keep moving, not to ruin the mood, but Andrés stills him with an insistent hand on his thigh. 

“Are you sure you want to keep going?” he asks, his thumb wiping away the single tear rolling down Martín’s cheek. 

Martín’s eyes widen. 

“Yes! Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just— it’s a lot.” 

He doesn’t know how to put it, doesn’t want to explain, but Andrés seems to get it. 

“I know,” he says and kisses him deeply, slowly. Martín’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest from the sincerity of the kiss. From pure affection. 

He starts moving again, faster this time, and when Andrés’ hand wraps around his erection and starts stroking him, he realizes just how close he is.

“An- Andrés, fuck,” he moans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Andrés’.

“Martín,” Andrés says, his voice shaky, on the verge of breaking, “come for me.” 

Martín wraps his hand around Andrés’ on his cock, and comes harder than ever before, Andrés’ name on his lips. While lost in his orgasm, barely able to move, he feels Andrés still a moment after, his fingers leaving bruises on his back.

When they both lie down, Martín quickly feels the insecurity creeping up on him again. He has become so used to just disappearing after having sex with someone, but this is Andrés, and after all, they share the hotel room, so he has nowhere to go. His racing thoughts stop immediately when Andrés rolls to his side and looks at Martín, without saying anything. 

“So, uh, what did you think?” Martín asks, and finally dares to let his eyes meet Andrés’. A smile spreads on Andrés’ face when he answers:

“I liked it.”

Martín lets out a breath he wasn’t aware that he was holding, and mirrors Andrés’ smile.

“Yeah?”— he reaches for Andrés’ hand and intertwines their fingers —“Me too.” 

Andrés lies down with his head on Martín’s shoulder and an arm over his chest. After a long pause he says:

“I really liked it. I think— I think I want to do it again.”

Martín’s heart skips a beat, and he doesn’t know what to say. Andrés lifts his head up to look him in the eyes, and still unable to find the right words, Martín pulls him down for a kiss. 

He feels overwhelmed by emotions once again, wanting to tell Andrés everything. How much he loves him, how long he has waited for this moment, how grateful he is. Deep down he’s sure Andrés already knows. He settles for:

“Happy birthday.”

Andrés looks at him with a tender smile, his lower lip quivering just the slightest, and his eyes tell Martín everything he needs to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The fic has come to an end. I hope you enjoyed the last chapter!  
> I had so much fun writing this fic, and I'm sure going to miss it.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading it, commenting, leaving kudos, everything <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/stilljustbitten) if you want :)


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